


Brook No Nonsense

by Merit



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 05:39:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7210220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/pseuds/Merit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a goddess is a job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brook No Nonsense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glinda/gifts).



Beverley woke with a start, air like fire down her throat, her hands curved in a stroke for water that wasn't there. Her fingers were crooked and her stomach felt like she had swallowed a bucket of cement. She exhaled, long and raspy, hands relaxing at her sides as she settled back on her bed. Peter stirred next to her, snorting into his pillow, but very decidedly _not_ waking up. His phone continued to go ring, some ancient tune from 2005 and _who_ even had ring tones these days. Beverley rolled her eyes.

“Some policeman,” she muttered, but she was smiling, swinging her legs out of her bed in one smooth motion. Goosebumps ran up her legs like lightning. It wasn't dawn yet, it wouldn't be dawn for hours yet, but Beverley looked to through the haphazardly hung curtains that she was always _meaning_ to rehang, looking for light. It was never _really_ dark in London. Hadn't been since they had first put up lights in the nineteenth century, to the lamentations of long dead moralisers. And London never really stopped moving, not at the centre, even as the suburbs slumbered. She back at Peter, still stretched out, mouth half open, sleeping. He had arrived at her place _late_ last night, a curry in a bag, and there had been builder's dust on his coat.

She didn't ask where he had been and he didn't tell her. They both had their secrets.

They had eaten the curry in front of the television, a repeat of an old quiz show. After they had eaten, Beverley had curled up against Peter, tracing a nonsense pattern against his skin. They had almost fallen asleep there, but just as she was about to doze off, Peter had gently shaken her.

“Beverley,” he murmured, against the curve of her ear and she couldn't help but shudder a little, coming out of the haze of her almost sleep. “Join me in bed?”

The phone shrilled once more, screen flashing in the dark.

“Peter,” she said and poked him. He woke with a snort and a wild flail. Beverley yawned as he picked his phone and curled back under the blankets. She watched him lazily, his back curved like a river bend and when he straightened, she sighed her disappointment. “Got to go out again?”

“Yeah. A possible magical disturbance in North London,” he shrugged. “Apparently they think some kids let off some fireworks, but the lights aren't fading and Guleed said she didn't think anyone should be sleeping if she had to work at four a.m.”

“Send my regards to her,” Beverley said drily. She slipped back into the bed, into his warm spot and sleepily watched him get dressed through half closed eyes. She was almost asleep again when he left, brushing a kiss against his her head, right at her hairline. Beverley shivered and smiled. “Bye Peter,” she murmured, to the click of the door.

 

* * *

 

Peter didn't live with her. Oh and he probably spent enough time at her flat that her neighbours thought he lived there. But officially, police records wise, he lived at the Folly. There was quite an expanded bunch there now and so Beverley couldn't blame Peter for wanting to spend time with her – oh that made perfect sense, she was fantastic. It had been fun watching Nightingale keep a straight face when she popped home early one day and he and Peter had just been watching the rugby on her telly. He had stood upright – gentlemen stood when ladies entered the room, way back then when he was first young – looking frightfully posh. And she had laughed, but still nodded at him, because respect was respect.

And there were other reasons, as well. It was in Peter's face when they visited her river together, his eyes on the water, on her. Beverley wanted to laugh. She wasn't in the habit of stealing mortals, she blamed the Greeks for starting that nonsense. And that was so passé! And it wasn't like she had even made an offer, not really, so Peter didn't need to worry about anything.

Oh and she supposed Peter officially moving in would cause Tyburn to throw a fit.

Tyburn turned to her then, as she could almost hear Beverley thinking about her. Beverley smiled prettily at her and then nodded encouragingly at the speaker, who had been tonelessly talking on for a good twenty minutes but donated a truly obscene amount of money to restoring London's waterways, so. They were all polite around him. It had been Tyburn's idea that Beverley join her on the Trust, with a longer name than Beverley's part of the Thames. It was one of the thousands that Tyburn seemed to belong to, always knowing everyone's names, everyone's children's names and gliding around the room, smile as slick as oil. Tyburn had presented the idea to Mama and Mama had agreed with Tyburn. Beverley had joined the Trust with the ridiculously long name.

The next summer Beverley had gritted her teeth through one of London's rare heat waves, as the Trust announced a new funding programme to a small pack of media, a few curious bystanders gawking. “People like you,” Tyburn had mused, tapping a polished finger against her mouth as she smiled.

The invitations had piled in then, some Beverley found worthwhile - “I like clothes,” she said, rolling her eyes at Tyburn, “Fashion is unsupported in this country anyway,” - and others less so. Of course, she didn't always agree with Tyburn and sometimes the meetings ended up with the two sisters glowering at each other, every other occupant finding a multitude of legitimate reasons to leave them alone.

“You wanted me here,” Beverley said, “Surely you didn't expect me agree with you about everything?”

Judging from the way the pencil snapped in Tyburn's fingers, she probably did. Though that rarely happened and they mostly agreed and London mostly prospered under their guidance.

Mama Thames made certain of that.

And then the meeting finally ended and Beverley made sure to sigh her relief just as everyone was pushing their chairs back, the sound lost.

 

* * *

 

Beverley wasn't supposed to have a favourite time at her river, but she always liked it when the sun was setting. There was a shift between the animals and birds, between the ones that moved under the sun and those who moved under the moon. Almost unnoticed, except for her, leaning against her car, watching the sun disappear behind buildings, the final rays streaking across her river. There seemed to a brief gasp, a break in the constant rush of the city, when the sun set. Before London went back to being London.

It wasn't even late, yet.

They wore the wetsuits because it was _slightly_ easier to explain why you were swimming in the Thames if you looked prepared. Beverley had lost count of the number of odd looks, but she was Beverley Brook and she did not care.

Beverley changed in her car, because she hated the dry fabric on her skin and dove into the water in one smooth motion. The water always leapt up to meet her, a warm embrace something like a mother's hug. Beverley giggled, watching the bubbles rise to the surface and spread her hands in the water. She glided a bit downwards, toward the muck at the bottom.

Hey, the Thames was a tidal river after all. Beverley let herself float to the surface, to the flared bulbs of the street lights. And Beverley loved her river.

She swam over to the shore slowly.

Peter was standing there, a towel in one hand. He tossed it to her when she stood.

“Hey you,” she said, slinging the towel around her shoulders, “How was North London?”

“Long,” Peter said, rolling his eyes, following her back to her car. “It wasn't fireworks. The kids had gotten a hold of some magical flares. Which spelled out some truly filthy things for the morning commuters.”

“If any of them looked away from their phones,” she said.

“Oh there were a few. Plus the local school wasn't that keen on it either,” Peter sighed. “I had to find the kids and ask them how they did it. They're part of the North London fellowship, of course, they cause more trouble than any of the other dozen schools set up. Pretty interesting set up though, the flares can be set up in advance and then timed to go off at certain times.”

“Don't tell me you gave them business ideas,” Beverley said, leaning against her car and giving Peter a dry look.

“Well,” Peter hedged, looking away, “It could be a better use of their time.”

Beverley shook her head. “Oh and it had nothing to do with an interesting display of magic, did it? And I just bet one or more was looking at you, full of hero worship and you couldn't punish them after that, could you?”

Peter blushed. “Well it _was_ an interesting use of magic,” he said.

Beverley threw her head back and laughed.


End file.
